


No Man Left Behind

by SplinterCell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, BAMF Jack Rollins, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Explicit Language, HYDRA Husbands, Little bit of (dental) torture, M/M, MF Brock Rumlow, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Really explicit language, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-07-16 06:26:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7256089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplinterCell/pseuds/SplinterCell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A simple mission in north Africa goes terribly wrong, leaving most of STRIKE dead at the hands of a notorious French mercenary...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was supposed to be such a simple mission. 

Rumours had surfaced about an apparently abandoned AIM facility hidden somewhere in the outskirts of Algiers, and suddenly everyone from state agencies and tribal warlords down to two-bit gangsters and petty criminals was blindly tearing apart the industrial sprawl ringing the city in the hopes of finding whatever goodies it might still hold. 

SHIELD on the other hand had taken its time, done its research, leveraged both existing and former assets within AIM and identified the facility’s most likely location in an old warehouse within 48 hours. STRIKE had been in the air just over an hour later with orders to verify the existence of the facility, and secure it for more thorough scientific investigation. 

The warehouse is really just one big room with a loading bay at the front, a row of small offices at the back and long lines of shelves in between. It certainly looks and feels abandoned - almost all of the windows are broken, their flashlights show thick layers of dust and dirt covering every possible surface, and there are weeds pushing up through the cracks in the floor. But STRIKE know too damn well that ‘apparently abandoned’ locations are often anything but, so they split up into two-man teams and proceed quietly and cautiously.

Everything is going well, until it really isn’t. 

One minute, Jack and Paulson are moving slowly down the right-hand side; the next Paulson’s yelling and there are barely distinct figures lunging at him from out of the shadows and knocking his gun from his hands.

Instinct takes over, and Jack ducks and rolls away from punches and kicks that he senses more than sees. He lashes out, aiming for where he thinks eyes and throats will be but it is at least two against one and his attackers have the element of surprise. He takes a vicious right hook to the side of the head which has him seeing stars and drops him to his knees, a swift kick to the face that slams him onto his back on the cold concrete floor, and then a harder one still to the ribs that punches all of the air out of his lungs and has him gasping and curling in around himself.

Pain spikes in sharp bursts of light as they lay into him, hard and brutal strikes to his back, chest and abdomen. He forces himself to be still and not move, and at length the other men seem satisfied that he’s no longer an immediate threat. Rough hands relieve him of his sidearm, his combat knife, and his radio. There's thick, laboured breathing coming from somewhere above him, and because he’s half-expecting it, Jack manages not to flinch when saliva hits his face and drips down his cheek into his mouth.

For a moment everything is quiet; Jack can hear shouting and gunfire further into the warehouse before that, too, abruptly falls silent. Low animal sounds of fear and pain are coming from somewhere to his left; Paulson, alive but from the sounds of it badly injured. There’s no telling what state the rest of the team is in. He's desperately trying to figure out what his options are, or even if he has any, when he hears a much more deeply disturbing sound. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate. _Two people he thinks_ , all of his senses on edge. _Coming from further inside the facility_. They stop a short way away. There’s something that sounds like rustling paper and then-

Jack screams and convulses as over a million volts tear through his body. First-hand experience of stun batons and electroshock weapons is required of all STRIKE operatives, but this feels so much worse; every muscle in his body is twisting and contorting until it feels like they’re about to rip themselves off his bones. 

And then- all of a sudden- the pain’s gone and Jack is left choking and shuddering on the ground. Hands clamp down onto his arms and legs. There’s the sound of fabric tearing as they cut away his jacket, and then something being wrapped tight around his upper arm.

Jack struggles in their grasp, trying to wrench his arm away. He gets a fist to the jaw that snaps his head to the side and then feels the unmistakable sharp sting of a needle pierce his arm.

“Careful with that shit. He’s not on the list.” Whatever they gave him is working fast; Jack’s thoughts are already starting to grow hazy but he _knows_ he knows that voice.

“He’s a witness,” a different voice insists, somewhere behind him.

“He saw nothing, he knows nothing,” the first man counters coldly and nausea blooms in Jack’s stomach when realisation of just who they got hit by dawns. “But feel free to explain to the Russian why you didn’t follow orders.”

A snort. “What about the other one?” 

If there’s a response to that, Jack misses it. Just before he slides completely under, he hears the sound of a bullet being chambered. 

_My team—_

**BANG.**

_—they’re killing my—_

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like it, please leave a comment. If you hate it, please leave a comment :)


	2. Chapter 2

The very first thing Brock registers when he comes back to his senses is the rancid taste of engine oil on the rag that’s been stuffed between his jaws and tied behind his head. Then a jumble of sensations in no particular order. 

Pins and needles in his hands from where the cuffs are too tight and cutting off his circulation. The sharp press of a metal grille against his cheekbone as the truck jolts over uneven roads. The stink of sweat and stale urine from the men sitting around him. No-one’s speaking. 

It’s by no means a promising way to wake up, but Brock’s been in worse and managed to make it out the other side in more-or-less one piece. He hurts all over, but nothing seems to be broken and that’s good. Whatever the hell they stuck him with seems to be wearing off just as quickly as it hit, and that’s even better. A sharp stinging pain in his shoulder means they’ve removed his tracker and that’s not good at all. It means he is entirely on his own. 

There’s a strong smell of brine and salt when they halt and the doors open, but Brock is pleased to see that it’s still pitch black out; it’s unlikely that he’s been out for very long. The truck sways as someone jumps up inside and walks closer to him, stopping a few feet away. There’s a bulb hanging above his head, but it’s too dim for Brock to make out anything other than a vague shape of a man.

“Hello, Brock,” the man says in a thick Arkansas accent and Brock can’t help tensing up in shocked recognition. No light needed; he’d know that voice anywhere and the fact that Lloyd Durrand is involved in this means Brock’s in several orders of magnitude more shit than he thought he was thirty seconds ago.

The other man catches his reaction and laughs. It’s a mean thing full of malice and the sound sends shivers down Brock’s spine. “Not happy to see me huh?” Brock doesn’t need to be able to see him to know that he’s smirking, can just imagine the vicious look of glee twisting his rat-like face. “Well don’t you worry now, we just want to have a little chat with you. But first…” 

Brock doesn’t catch what Durrand says next, but all of a sudden the men around him are moving, hands grabbing at his arms and legs. There’s a click as his handcuffs are released from the grille, and Brock lunges forwards when one of the thugs gets a little too close. There’s a satisfying crunch followed by an even more satisfying yell as the bastard’s nose breaks. 

Durrand clicks his tongue somewhere above him, and one of his hands twists into Brock’s hair, gripping tightly enough to tear it out. “Naughty naughty,” Durrand tuts, and then slams the back of Brock’s head into the truck’s wall once, twice, three times with quick sharp jerks of his wrist. 

Brock's vision is swimming from the blows as the men grapple him down onto his back, kneeling their weight on his arms and thighs and pulling at his face. The gag is yanked away and replaced immediately with thick stinking fingers holding his jaws apart and pressing his tongue down.

Durrand steps back into view once Brock's fully immobilised, he’s holding something in his right hand that glints in the low light. He holds it down in front of Brock’s face so he can get a _real_ good look. “Now Brock, this _is_ going to hurt,” he says with a leer. “But I hear that shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

He crouches down beside him, so close that Brock can smell his sour aftershave, and reaches into his mouth. The metal scrapes against teeth and Brock starts to pant. He tries to kick out; it’s weak and uncoordinated but there’s a pained grunt as he connects with a shin. He gets a sharp jab to the kidney as a reward, and big meaty hands clamp down on his legs.

“Oh don’t be like that,” Durrand murmurs as he repositions the tool and Brock tries to steel himself for what’s coming, tries to-

There’s a sickening tearing/ripping sensation, and Brock screams around the fingers in his mouth as pain explodes in his jaw and whites out his vision. Blood floods into his mouth, hot and metallic, and he retches violently as it slides down his throat. They manhandle him roughly onto his knees and pull his arms behind his back. The handcuffs are too tight again, but Brock can’t focus on anything apart from waves of pain/heat/nausea.

When he glances up, Durrand is sitting back on his heels and turning the pliers one way and then the other, inspecting the bloody tooth clamped between them with idle interest. “There now,” he tells Brock, grinning. “Ain’t that better? Couldn’t have you checking out on us before we got to have our chat, could we?”

Brock ducks his head forward and lets the blood pool on his tongue. He sucks in a shaky breath through his nose, and then another, and another as he fights to regain control of himself. Pain is good. Pain sharpens the senses, brings the world into relief. _Order through pain_ , he reminds himself, and he's never before needed that to be true as badly as he does right now. He looks up again; Durrand’s still holding the pliers and still grinning that shit-eating smile. He’s only a foot away. 

With all the force he can muster, Brock spits the blood as hard as he can straight into the motherfucker’s grinning mouth.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave myself a fear of dentistry writing this...  
> Remember - all comments will be rewarded with prizes (terms and conditions apply)


	3. Chapter 3

The smell of blood is thick in his nostrils when Jack comes to; coppery and a little bit sweet, sharper and more distinct above the dank and stagnant air.

Jack’s certain that he’s alone - that their attackers are long gone - the minute he opens his eyes, but he remains cautious nonetheless. He lies still as the drug’s effects recede, letting his eyes re-adjust to the gloom and straining to catch any sound that might indicate the rest of the team is still alive.

There’s just a deep and terrible silence.

Paulson’s body is lying a few feet away when Jack climbs to his feet and looks around. He's sprawled on his back, arms flung out to the side. There’s a neat circular entry wound in his forehead, and a pool of coagulating blood seeping into the cracks in the concrete.

And it's not as if Jack’s a stranger to death; losing friends and comrades is unavoidable in this line of work and over the years he’s seen more than a few good men and women torn apart by gunfire, grenades and IEDs. Paulson’s death was quick, at least. Could even be considered merciful compared to the some he’s seen. It's scant comfort.

He crouches down next to Paulson’s legs. Jack’s tactical light was lost when they took his gun but Paulson was carrying a spare. “Sorry, Danny,” he murmurs, tugging the flashlight free with numb fingers. He thumbs the switch and makes his way further into the warehouse in search of the rest of the team.

He finds McIntyre and Hudson slumped together on the other side of the building, both sporting matching wounds between their open, sightless eyes. With a heavy heart, Jack heads towards the back of the room and the row of small offices.

In reality, they barely deserve the name; they’re just a series of small box rooms with no doors and dividing walls that in some cases have been built using old packing crates. They are situated on an elevated platform to provide a view of the rest of the warehouse floor, and Jack finds Nguyen lying in a heap at the base of the steps leading up to them. He’s not been shot; it would have been an unnecessary waste of a bullet when his head is sitting at such an unnatural angle to the rest of his body.

Jack picks his way past the body and heads upstairs to check the offices, but they hold nothing more than yellowing papers and office furniture. It’s not until he gets to the end of the row that he releases a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. 

Rumlow’s not there. _Brock’s missing._

There _are_ signs of a struggle in one of the cubicles - plenty of new boot marks in the dust and an overturned desk - but there’s no blood; no sign that Brock has been shot or stabbed or otherwise injured. The relief Jack feels is quickly chased away by a cold and visceral fear that twists deep into his guts.

That Brock is alive right now is good news, and Jack clings to that knowledge ferociously. The bad news is that whoever hit them had strict orders on who to kill and who to capture, and what _that_ means is that Brock’s future is looking increasingly nasty and, most importantly, short.

Jack forces his mind away from nightmare torture scenarios and focuses on what he’s going to do next. He needs to find Brock, and for that he needs to find a way to contact HQ. Their attackers were as thorough with the rest of the team as they had been with him, but Nguyen always carried a backup sat phone and there’s a chance, _just a chance-_

“C’mon, c’mon.” Medical trauma kit. Spare magazines. Notepad and pencil. Jack sits back on his heels and drags his hands down his face. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes. Now what? He sweeps the flashlight around looking for god-knows-what, his thoughts elsewhere as he considers his options-

Something shiny catches in the flashlight’s beam, all-but obscured by an oversized packing box on the bottom shelf. Jack drags it out with shaking hands; the screen’s badly cracked from the impact with the floor but it works, it works, _it works._

He identifies himself, and there’s a series of clicks down the line before their mission coordinator picks up. “Rollins? What the _hell_? Why are you—“

Jack explains the ambush as succinctly as he can and manages to keep the emotion out of his voice when he reports that four team members are dead and their commander has been captured. “Liam, I need to know if they dug out his tracker. Even if they did, I’ll need his last-known coordinates.”

“Copy that,” Miller says, and Jack can hear the rapid-fire tapping as he types. “We’ll check and- sorry, what? _What?_ No, _no_ he’s—“

The line goes silent for so long that Jack wonders if he’s lost the connection. When it comes back Liam Miller’s voice has been replaced by Maria Hill’s. “Agent Rollins,” she says, and her voice is tighter than Jack ever remembers hearing it. “Stay exactly where you are. We are aware of your situation, and are arranging emergency evacuation immediately.”

Jack’s surprised but not entirely shocked by the instruction. Hill favours doing things by-the-book wherever possible, and the book tends to frown on risky solo rescue missions. He takes a deep breath and tries anyway.

“Ma’am,” he says, mindful of the ticking clock and doing his best to stay professional. “Batroc hit us; you know his rep—“

“Batroc? How do you know that?”

Jack frowns, nonplussed by the question. “I heard him.” Batroc ranks highly on more than a few countries’ Most Wanted lists and he’s been on SHIELD’s radar for years. Any field agent worth the the title should be able to recognise the man.

That doesn’t seem to be the answer Hill is looking for. “Batroc was seen off Somalia just over a week ago,” she interrupts.

“Yeah, and the Suez Canal is a _wonderful_ thing, Deputy Director,” Jack snaps back. “Look, we’re wasting time. It _was_ Batroc, and you won’t be able to get to him before he goes to ground. I can—“

He doesn’t get any further. “Permission denied. You are not authorised to go after Commander Rumlow. I repeat, stay where you are and wait for extraction. We’ll handle this.” There’s a pause as Hill waits for Jack to acknowledge his orders. When he doesn’t, she goes on in a softer voice, “Jack, you run off half-cocked now and all you’ll do is get yourself killed. Stick to the protocol. You’ve lost men before, this is no different.”

And she’s not wrong about his chances, even Jack can admit that. He’s bruised, battered, unarmed and has no real idea of who he might be going up against. His chances of success are small, to say the least. 

But then he thinks about Nguyen's broken neck and the footprints tracked through Paulson’s blood. “I have to try,” he says at last. “They were put down like they were no better than fucking _dogs_. You _can’t_ expect me—“

“I expect you to stay where you are. That’s an _order_ , Agent.” It’s a cold and hard dismissal, and one that Jack has never before heard directed at him. Hill rings off before Jack can even think to respond, leaving him breathing heavily and clutching the phone hard enough to crack the casing. 

With nothing to do but wait, his mind drifts back to what might be happening to Brock right now; withstanding torture is a standard part of STRIKE’s training but everyone breaks eventually. Jack shudders, and forces himself to focus instead on what he knows.

It’s not a lot, and it makes _no sense_.

But fifteen minutes after Hill ends their call, a message comes through to the phone; short and unsigned: _Port of Algiers. Terminal 2. Cargo freighter “Le Boudin”._

“God bless you, Liam,” he breathes, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. It takes another minute or two for him to dig out his own tracker. Fuck Hill and _fuck_ SHIELD. No man left behind; that had always been STRIKE’s motto.

Even combined with the time he was out cold, Jack’s probably only thirty minutes behind them. He can’t help but wonder if he’s already too late.

\- - -


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brain: Hey. So how do you feel about writing action?  
> Me: Not great, actually. Why?  
> Brain: Oh. You're gonna love this chapter.

They put a bag over his head before they lead him out of the van; two men at either side, their grip on his arms strong enough to bruises, and who knows how many behind him. But Brock knows damn well where he is bag or no bag, and the knowledge makes his skin crawl. 

Rendition flights and black sites are just a couple of the better-known ways to make a man disappear, and they come with risks. Cargo ships, generally ignored and unheralded as they make their slow and steady way across the oceans, are distinctly less glamorous but no less effective. 

If Brock had to guess, he’d say it’s a specialised container vessel, heavily automated with minimal crew. He does his best to commit the route they take to memory; he has to be prepared to take advantage of any opportunity that presents itself. He makes sure to stumble a bit, like he’s still reeling from the unplanned tooth extraction and feels the gun digging into the small of his back waver. 

There are still far too many of them for him to try anything, but it’s a positive sign. These fuckers are _good_ , he’ll give them that, but they’re not infallible.

What’s even better is that it is immediately apparent that Durrand’s plan has hit a snag. The ship is abuzz with activity when it shouldn’t be; deckhands and stevedores calling back-and-forth over the sound of metal on metal as cranes lift off the containers. 

Mechanical failure, Brock hears when Durrand demands to know what the holdup is. They’ll need another hour. Yeah, cargo ships have their own downsides too. 

Then the men are dragging Brock away, the barrel of the gun pressing sharply into his spine as they push him down the passageways and eventually into an empty cabin, cuffing his ankles to the chair legs and securing his arms behind the back. 

They don’t remove the bag, and Brock is left alone in the dark with only the sound of his own breathing to keep him company for who knows how long. He’s testing his restraints when the door opens and heavy footsteps come towards him. Brock stills in anticipation of a blow that never comes; instead, the bag is yanked off suddenly. 

“Don’t waste your time trying to escape,” Durrand sneers down at him. There are still flecks of blood on his chin. “You ain’t going anywhere.” 

Brock doesn’t bother to grace that with a response. 

“You know,” Durrand continues with mock thoughtfulness. “I never thought it would be this easy to take out STRIKE.”

“Hard to fuck up an ambush like that,” Brock replies, putting as much contempt as he can into the words. “But sounds like you’ve still got some time yet.”

“Still a cocky bastard.”

Brock smiles, slow and lazy. “Just better than you is all, you ugly cunt.” A moment later, his head snaps to the side as Durrand backhands him. He laughs thickly. “Hah. You never could handle the truth.” He grunts as the man grabs hold of his jaw and wrenches his head backwards, calloused fingers digging into Brock’s injured jaw. The sudden flare of pain makes him feel suddenly lightheaded.

“Here’s some fucking _truth_ for you, Rumlow,” Durrand says roughly in his ear. “Your whole worthless team is dead, and no-one knows where you are. No-one’s coming for you.” 

He releases Brock and steps back breathing heavily. “Tell me, _Commander_ , just how familiar are you with the Red Room’s techniques?” Brock can’t help but flinch at that, and Durrand nods. “Yeah. You’re going to tell us _everything_ you know and by the time we’re done with you, you’ll be begging us to kill you. Be back soon, Brock. Don’t go anywhere,” he says with a sneer and steps out of the room, replaced a moment later by a baby-faced mercenary with a gun that looks cartoonishly large in his slender hands.

Brock is… _intellectually_ familiar with the Red Room’s techniques. He’s read enough reports to know that he certainly doesn’t want to experience them personally. He feels panic start to set in and ruthlessly stomps the feelings down. Panic is a useless emotion; he needs to stay calm and think. 

“Hey,” he calls across to his guard. “How about some water?” The man- no, boy- is so young that Brock wonders if his voice has even broken.” The boy looks at him quizzically but makes no sign of having understood Brock’s request. 

“De l’eau, s’il vous plait?” _That_ gets him a wide-eyed stare quickly followed by a scowl and a shake of the head.

“Fine,” he mutters. The taste of blood in his mouth is really the least of his worries, anyway. He pulls on the cuffs again but Durrand wasn’t lying; the chair’s bolted to the ground and he really _isn’t_ going anywhere on his own. 

Earlier bravado aside, the reality is even STRIKE wouldn’t have been able to pull off that ambush any better and he’s under no illusions that Durrand’s lying about his team, either. Brock remembers the look on Nguyen’s face as he fell backwards, and the desperate yells and gunfire as the others were attacked. He remembers McIntyre’s crack about finding some of that experimental sex pollen AIM had been mucking around with years back, and the unbelievably filthy wink Jack had thrown him behind his teammate’s head.

And maybe it’s because he’s so desperate for a way out, all of his senses on high alert, that he hears it. He looks up and tries to follow the sounds. Boots ringing heavily against steel; men moving quickly and purposefully on the deck above. 

It's not particularly out of the ordinary, but Brock has spent a lifetime as a soldier and he’s learnt to pay attention to things that feel odd, wrong, out of place. 

The boy follows his gaze, and startles at the sound of a couple of people running down the passageway outside their cabin. He makes his way around the cabin to the porthole behind Brock’s chair. Brock resists the urge to crane his head to catch a glimpse of what’s outside.

The boy has barely made it back to the door before there’s a faint but unmistakeable sound of a crash coming from somewhere below them and towards what Brock thinks is the stern of the ship. 

“Do you know what is?” The soft question takes him by surprise. His young guard is shifting uneasily from foot to foot. 

Brock snorts. “Could be anything,” he says. “Why don’t you go outside and find out?”

The boy considers him carefully for a long moment but then they both jump at the sound of another crash. It’s not especially easy to pinpoint the direction, but Brock could swear that one was closer, and maybe, just maybe he can hear shouting, too.

 _“What is?”_ The boy’s eyes are wide, and there’s a hint of desperation starting to appear in his stance and the way his fingers tighten about the gun. Brock takes his time replying; closing his eyes and trying to tune out the normal noises of a ship in harbour and focus on what's important. What isn't right. 

“Not what,” he says finally, forcing his voice to stay calm. “ _Who_. And seeing as my friends are dead, I’d say it’s probably the people who hired you cleaning house.”

“Cleaning… house?

Brock nods. “Yeah. Destroying evidence, killing witnesses. It’s what I’d do, if I were them.” Had done in fact, many times. 

The boy sucks in a deep breath, and Brock decides to press his advantage. “Listen,” he tells the kid. “Whoever’s coming is bad news for you. You get me out of here, and the people I work for will pay you very well for saving my life.”

The boy sneers, an expression that is several years too old for his face. “Or kill me as soon as you are safe.”

Young but not naïve, then. “Maybe, yeah” Brock says with a shrug; no use in denying it. “But what’s your alternative?”

The alternative becomes suddenly and shockingly apparent a couple of minutes later; there’s a burst of gunfire from what sounds to be right below them, and now Brock definitely can hear shouting, maybe even some screams. Despite what he said to the boy, it is now sounding less like a calculated ambush and far more like an all-out assault. It makes his heart rate pick up. 

But whatever it is, it seems to make the boy’s mind up for him – he looks at Brock with wide, fearful eyes and nods sharply.

“Okay. You know the man who was in here?” Another nod. “He has the key to my cuffs. When he comes back, get the key and we’ll get out of this together.” 

The boy obviously wants to ask something else but the door is thrown open before he has a chance, Durrand's face a contorted mask of fury and fear. The sight of him kicks all of Brock’s senses up into high gear; he needs to stay sharp and wait for the right moment. 

He glances at the boy and tries to convey to him to _wait_ without it being too obvious, but it’s too late. The kid doesn’t even manage to raise his gun before the man standing outside puts two quick bullets in the back of his head. 

Durrand doesn’t even look around. “Nice try,” he grunts as he unlocks the cuffs and drags Brock to his feet roughly. 

There is another man waiting for them as they make their way onto the main deck and they fall into a practised formation; one man in front, the one who shot the kid covering them from behind and Durrand beside him, one hand clamped like a vice around Brock’s arm. They hustle him along the deck at a quick pace, past huge stacks of containers still waiting to be unloaded. It takes Brock a moment to realise that the cranes have stilled, that _all_ activity on the ship has come to a halt. The only sounds he can hear now are those of the men breathing next to him, and-

The buzzing, chopping sound of a helicopter’s rotors churning through the air as it hovers over the deck. Brock can see a figure up ahead, urging them to hurry. 

He’s out of time; it’s all over if they get him on that helicopter. 

Brock stumbles heavily to the side, using his weight to pull Durrand off balance and make him loosen his grip. Durrand goes down with a yell, the man in front joining him when Brock slams his boot into the back of his knee. 

There’s a staccato burst of gunfire from behind him – far too close behind him! He throws himself to the side as bullets tear through the air where he was just a moment ago. He crawls towards the nearest container and cringes back against the steel, curling around himself to protect his head and try to present a smaller target as bullets ricochet off steel. There’s no way to tell who, or how many people are firing, but then all of a sudden it stops just as quickly as it started, and all Brock can hear as the echoes die away is his own blood pounding in his ears. He counts to three and risks opening his eyes. What he sees makes him want to laugh, scream and cry, all at the same time.

Durrand’s lying on the deck a foot or two away with half his head missing, and standing over him is none other than _Jack_ fucking _Rollins_. He’s covered in sweat and dirt and other people’s blood, and he’s most beautiful fucking thing that Brock thinks he’s ever seen. 

“Handcuffs,” Brock manages to croak out. “Left inside pocket.” 

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make all of the pain worthwhile and leave me some love? :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Really Brain? Action and dialogue? The two things I dislike writing the most in the same freaking chapter?  
> Brain: This is what you get for not writing the second chapter of A Change of Worlds. You have only yourself to blame.  
> Me: Fuck you, Brain.

Brock still looks like he’s seen a ghost as Jack slips the key into the lock, wide-eyed and disbelieving. “You hurt?” he asks, and Brock shakes his head. 

_**“LÀ BAS!”**_

“Good,” he says as the handcuffs fall open with a click. “Because we’ve got company on the way.” He hands Brock a pistol and peers around the corner of the container. “Ah _shit_ …” There are at least five figures making their way towards them.

“What’s your plan?” 

These men are smarter than the others Jack encountered; they’re being careful, using the ship to their advantage. Not presenting Jack with any easy shots. He swears softly. “Shoot my way onto the ship. Rescue you. Shoot my way off again.” 

It’s hardly the most sophisticated plan Jack’s ever come up with, but there is a time for subtlety and a time for brute force and so far the latter has worked well enough. Brock snorts but says nothing.

_**“ÉCARTEZ-VOUS! NE LES LAISSENT PAS REDOUBLER!”** _

There! 

One of the men drops like a stone as Jack nails him in the chest. He’s just about to get a second when there’s a loud snap just over his head and then Brock is yanking him down to the deck by his collar, firing over his shoulder at a man who had managed to flank them.

“Don’t suppose you have a Plan B?” Brock asks, gun trained on the containers and eyes scanning the shadows.

“Sure.” Jack holsters his gun. “But it’s a 70, maybe 80 feet drop,” he says. “You even remember your dive training?” The look Brock gives him makes him grin. “Just asking. On three, then.”

_**“LAISSE-LES PAS S'ECHAPPER! BANDE D'ENCULÉS!”**_

The air fills with the crack and snap of automatic weapons as Jack and Brock sprint for the starboard bulwark and the ocean, stealth abandoned for the sake of speed and the element of surprise. Steel rings with impacts as they reach the edge of the deck, and Jack feels a sharp sting over his hipbone as he vaults it a second after Brock. 

From this height they only have around 2 and half seconds before they hit the water, but proper dive protocol is almost as automatic as breathing after so many years in the Navy. _Legs straight, arms in, head up, breathe out_ and- 

The brief adrenaline rush of falling through the air is abruptly replaced by the deep muffled shock of water as it closes over his head and drags him down, down, _down_ into the darkness. Jack wills himself to stay calm as his descent slows and his lungs start to burn. He pushes himself upwards and breaks the surface with a gasp, Brock surfacing a moment later coughing thickly. 

_**“DANS L'EAU. DE LA LUMIÈRE, MAINTENANT! MERDE!”**_

He swims towards Brock as multiple lights hit the sea around them, sweeping back and forth. “We need to get away from the ship,” he shouts, just as first one light and then the others find them. 

_Fuck!_

He grabs Brock and drags him back under as gunfire splits the air again, one arm clamped around him as he pulls him down and away from the bullets smacking into the water. It’s only when Jack’s sure that they’re beyond the search radius of the searchlights and he starts to feel Brock struggle against him that he lets them surface, supporting Brock with one arm wrapped around his waist as they tread water.

“I’m fine,” Brock chokes out, slapping Jack’s arm away. “We gotta…“ They both hear it at the same time and look back to see the helicopter fly around the stern of the ship and straight towards them. It’s low over the water, a powerful light shining down onto the surface. “Keep moving,” Brock finishes, and this time he takes the lead and pulls Jack under again.

Their tactical gear isn’t designed for underwater work; its heft and bulk make swimming harder than it should be. Combined with the earlier assault and Jack is starting to tire, his limbs starting to ache, by the time they reach the quay wall. Brock looks drawn and pale under the moonlight as Jack guides him to a ladder. He’s never been a particularly strong swimmer, and who knows what he went through when they captured him.

“Give me a minute,” Brock wheezes weakly, leaning his forehead against the metal as he tries to steady his breathing. “Think I managed to swallow most of the fucking Med. _Fuck._ ”

A minute is about all they can spare. There are no ships berthed this far away from the main terminal, and the quay above them is quiet and empty. But it won’t be for long; Jack can see the helicopter still scouring the harbour, and the calls of the searchers are carrying on the wind, sounding increasingly frantic. It’s only a matter of time before their search widens out. 

“Brock, we gotta go _now_ ,” Jack whispers, climbing up past him and reaching down to help him out of the water. And it’s easy - almost _too_ easy - to slip between the dark and silent warehouses and storage yards and then finally out into the city itself. 

Jack can’t quite let himself believe they’ve made it, that someone _isn’t_ going to step out in front of them, until Brock stops next to a beaten-up Mercedes parked haphazardly in a vacant lot. It’s got to be at least twenty five years old and what little bodywork that isn’t mottled with rust is obscured by dirt, up to and including its number plate. 

Jack stands watch as Brock pulls out one of his shoelaces, ties a slip knot and works it down behind the door until he can tighten the knot around the door lock and pull it up. It’s always amazed him; the sheer number of ways Brock knows to break into a car in under a minute.

It takes about the same amount of time for him to hotwire it, and the car stutters to life with a growl as Brock climbs over to the passenger side to let Jack put some serious distance between them and the port. They’ve not gone very far at all though when Brock says quietly, “Motorbike.” He’s staring intently into the cracked wing mirror. “Green helmet. Two cars behind us.”

Jack’s already seen it a couple of times in the rear view mirror; it’s been with them almost since they pulled out of the lot. It _could_ be perfectly harmless but at this time of the night even Algiers is starting to go to sleep; the roads are not empty busy but the traffic is flowing freely and _that_ makes the sight of a bike sitting obediently behind cars distinctly strange.

Well, there’s one way to find out. Jack turns left at the next junction, and then again a couple more times until they pull onto a quiet residential street. “Still with us?” he asks.

“Don’t think so.” Brock points to an empty space further up the street, hidden from the streetlights by the branches of a large tree. “Pull in over there.”

Jack shuts off the lights but leaves the engine running as Brock gets out and makes his way back down the street, picking a spot behind a low wall that will give him a view of anything that might be coming from either direction. 

Ten minutes feel like thirty, but there’s nothing but one old man on a bicycle pedalling slowly up the centre of the road and paying precisely no attention to anything or anyone else, and when Brock slips back into the car and gives the all clear, Jack finally allows himself to breathe.

But that relief quickly fades as he notes how tense Brock is; his unease so palpable that Jack can almost taste it in the air. Jack’s seen it before, hell he’s _experienced_ it before; a peculiar sort of skittishness that comes after a particularly close call as the body and mind still struggle to accept that a bullet or a knife that won’t be coming in the immediate future. 

It’s normal, completely natural. But they need to move on; this is a well-to-do street, and a rusted old car idling in the street is sure to eventually draw unwelcome attention. Jack needs Brock firing on all cylinders for just a little while longer. They can deal with this later. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching across to reassure him that he’s safe. “It’s alright—“

He stills in shock as Brock twists towards him and raises the gun. “…what the _fuck_ , Rumlow?” he breathes. The muzzle is pointing straight at his chest. Jack knows how fast Brock’s reflexes are; his chances of overpowering him before he has a chance to fire are pretty damned low. He makes a show of dropping his hand slowly to his lap. 

“Just how _did_ you find me, Jack?” It’s too dark inside the cab to fully make out Brock’s expression, but the distrust in his voice chills Jack to his bones. “They dug out my tracker _long_ before we reached the port.” 

“Ken’s sat phone,” Jack replies, managing to keep his voice even. “I called HQ and they directed me to the ship.” He winces at the sharp intake of breath when he mentions HQ, and goes on quickly. “Hill didn’t authorise the rescue, but Liam or someone must have found Batroc’s vessel. They sent me a message.”

“You disobeyed a direct order from _Maria Hill_?” The gun doesn’t move, but Brock’s tone sounds calculating as opposed to openly hostile.

Jack shrugs slightly. “The rest of the team were dead; they weren’t going to get to you in time. I wasn’t just going to sit on my ass and do _nothing_.” 

And why that should calm him, Jack has no fucking idea, but it does. Brock slides the safety back on and holsters the gun with a sigh. “Still got your tracker?”

“I dug it out.” Jack almost jumps when he feels strong fingers at his neck, pulling his shirt aside so Brock can check for himself. 

“Well _shit_ ,” Brock murmurs, letting go and sinking back into his seat with a chuckle. “What am I going to do with you, Jackie?” All signs of Brock’s earlier unease have completely disappeared, as quickly as they appeared.

A stray dog trot across the road ahead of them, head held high as it sniffs the night air. “How about you tell me what the _fuck_ is going on,” he says quietly. A minute ago he was close to eating lead courtesy of his own commanding officer. The shift in Brock’s demeanour is so sudden that it leaves Jack disconcerted and reeling. 

Brock hums for a second. “Well,” he says slowly. “The mission was a setup, but you probably already figured that out.”

“No shit.” Like that isn’t glaringly obvious. “Set up by _who?_ ” 

When Brock doesn’t reply, Jack looks over to find him probing his jaw with his fingertips, mouth drawn down into a grimace. “They pulled one of my teeth,” he explains when he sees Jack staring. “You know, I never used to be afraid of dentists but—”

“Set up by who?” Jack repeats, and Brock stops what he’s doing to face him properly.

“You don’t have the clearance to know,” he says eventually, and holds up a hand when Jack protests. “You _don’t_. But... fuck it - you saved my life, so. You ever heard of Hydra?”

Of course he has. Every schoolchild in America has heard of Hydra and what they were doing during the war, just as every schoolchild also knows that they died out in the 40s thanks to Captain America. He tells Brock as much, and there’s a flash of white as Brock grins. 

“Yeah well, not all of them. Operation Paperclip brought over more than a thousand scientists, engineers and technicians after the war. Long story short; some of those guys were also Hydra, and some of them never renounced their old allegiances. They’ve been growing inside SHIELD for seventy years, Jack. Right under our fucking noses.”

“Bullshit,” Jack snaps before he can help himself. “SHIELD would never have brought in anyone even suspected of sympathising with Hydra.” 

“Oh come off it, Jack,” Brock says, and Jack doesn’t need to be able to see him to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “Truman gave explicit anti-Nazi orders, and what did they do? They falsified employment histories and political biographies. It was all fine, so long as it meant access to scientific expertise that could push America ahead of the rest of the world. Pragmatism always beats idealism; always has, always will. What makes you think SHIELD would have been any different?” 

_Because it’s SHIELD_ , Jack nearly says, but the words die on his tongue. Brock’s right; Jack’s seen SHIELD make the pragmatic choice over the right choice, the _moral_ choice, more times than he cares to count. “Jesus fuck,” he breathes, mostly to himself. “So _that’s_ who hit us? Long-dead Nazi fucks?”

“Fury was pretty close to rooting them out,” Brock says quietly, and all of a sudden he sounds very tired. “They just got to us first. If you hadn’t rescued me they’d have found out everything we knew. So, thanks.”

Jack doesn’t reply. He’s recalling the ambush, the sound of rustling paper and the prick of a needle deep in his arm. “Why would they knock me out and leave me alive? Why not kill me too?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they were planning to pick you up separately and take you elsewhere.”

It all makes a terrible type of sense, all the pieces falling into place. “No wonder they were so surprised when I called in,” Jack says. “No _fucking_ wonder Hill told me to stay put.” But Maria Hill’s the Deputy Director; the notion that she could be a traitor is… is… 

Something of the turmoil he feels must be showing in his face or posture because Brock reaches over to catch his hand. “Look, Jack,” he says gently, thumb rubbing slow circles into his palm. “Fury didn’t tell me everything, but what I _do_ know is that this shit goes a whole lot higher, and a whole lot deeper than you, or I, can probably imagine.”

Jack looks down at their hands. “You thought I was a part of it.” And it’s _that_ realisation more than anything else that gets to him. 

“I didn’t know.” Brock has the decency to at least sound contrite. “I had to make sure.” 

It’s too much to take in just now. _So deal with it later_ , he tells himself. _Focus on the here-and-now. What’s the number one priority?_

He gives Brock’s hand a squeeze before he pulls his away, raking it through his hair and taking a deep breath. “Fine. Okay. So it turns out _fucking Hydra_ are alive and well and all over SHIELD. I guess it’s safe to assume our safehouse _isn’t_ , anymore?” 

“Right. But I know another place; used it a couple of times when I was doing unofficial jobs for Fury and Pierce. Should be off the books.” Brock gives an apologetic half-shrug when Jack looks at him.

_Should be_. It’s the best they can hope for now.

“I hope it has a fucking shower,” he mutters, flicking the lights back on.

Brock directs him through the quiet streets, moving further and further away from the city centre until they’re driving through a neighbourhood which reminds Jack all too unpleasantly of his own childhood. The buildings here have none of the architectural charm on view elsewhere in the city; they’re small and dirty and crammed almost on top of each other. Washing lines are strung from one window to the next, criss-crossing the rubbish strewn street. 

Brock has him ditch the car in an alley and leads the rest of the way on foot, slipping easily through the shadows and confidently making his way through streets and alleys that all look the same to Jack and leave him hopelessly turned about and confused within five minutes. 

In the end, the safehouse turns out to be just another hovel in a street full of hovels, with stained white paint peeling off the stonework and bars over the small windows. It looks absolutely abysmal from the outside but Jack’s seen far, far worse and he’s moved beyond caring. 

No-one will know to look for them here. They’re still not safe, but he’s becoming more and more aware of his salt-stiffened clothes with each moment that passes. Tiredness and pain are starting to creep back into his consciousness. He wants painkillers, a shower, and Brock in precisely that order.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the responses I've gotten so far on this fic. They are all so appreciated :)
> 
> Translations for the French: 
> 
> Là bas! = Over there!  
> Écartez-vous! Ne les laissent pas redoubler! = Spread out! Don't let them double back!  
> Laisse-les pas s'echapper! Bande d'enculés! = Don't let them get away! Motherfuckers!  
> Dans l'eau! De la lumière, maintenant! Merde! = In the water! Light, now! Shit!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: Really, Brain? A sex scene?  
> Brain: You know why I do this to you, don't you? It's because you still haven't finished your last WIP and yet you're still planning other stories.  
> Me: ...  
> Brain: Aw. Here, will these pictures of Callan Mulvey help?  
> Me: ...  
> Brain: Um. I really didn't intend 1.5k words of smut.  
> Me: Yeah well. Fuck you, Brain. 
> 
> NOTE THE RATING/TAG CHANGE LOVELIES :)

Jack hasn't moved when Brock comes back from his sweep of the safe house. It didn't take him very long, but then again there really isn't much in the way of house to check. 

"So what's the verdict?" Jack asks. He has both arms crossed tightly across his chest and there's a deeply unhappy expression on his face. There is, quite clearly, very little about this situation that he likes.

Brock doesn't respond. He makes his way across the kitchen to the little Formica table and drops onto one of the stools with a sigh, slides the safety back onto his gun and slaps it down on the tabletop with a little too much force. Doesn't mean to; it just sort of slips from his fingers.

" _Brock_."

"Yeah, Jack. I think we're good." He sighs again. _Fuck_ , he's tired. "But no guarantees, you know?" 

Nothing looked out of place, but it's been a little more than two years since he was last here and any half-way competent agency knows how to cover its tracks. He looks up to try and give Jack a reassuring smile, but he's too tired to make it stick and it slides off his face almost immediately.

Jack doesn't budge from his position by the door. "How come SHIELD don't know about this place?"

Brock's not surprised by the question – he was expecting it in the car, to be perfectly honest. But he had hoped that Jack might just accept this turn of events without question.

Brock bends to pull off his boots. "Because it ain't a SHIELD safe house," he answers, setting them down by the wall and peeling off his socks. His feet are clammy in the cool air but the relief is instantaneous and shockingly intense. He rests his elbows on his knees and peers up at Jack. "It's one of mine. I set it up back when I was working here with the CIA, before the civil war." 

That would have been... Brock grimaces. _Jesus_. That would have been back in the late 80's. _Time flies when you're having fun_ , he thinks grimly.

Jack's expression darkens considerably at the mention of Brock's career prior to joining SHIELD. He's only ever seen a tiny fraction of Brock's file, and he couldn't look his commanding officer in the eye for nearly a week afterwards. "Right," he says coolly. "And you've used it for unofficial jobs since then."

Brock shrugs. "They don't ask, and I don't tell. It's one of the benefits of hiring people like me, Jack; we tend come with a lot of our own assets," he says, and hopes silently that Jack won't pull at that particular thread.

"What _sort_ of unofficial jobs?" _No dice_.

Brock shakes his head. "Classified well above your clearance level," he says with as much finality as he can muster. He has absolutely no intention of opening this can of worms; in no small part because he tries not to recall most of those jobs. Bad enough he has to see the scars in the shower every day.

Jack snorts at that, but he doesn't push it. One of the reasons Jack stopped joining STRIKE's weekly poker night was because he was ridiculously easy to read, and Brock can see that every instinct Jack has is screaming bloody murder at him right now.

 _Which makes two of us, buddy_ , Brock thinks to himself. _We're out of the frying pan and straight into the fucking fire_. 

But Brock can't and won't give him any more than he already has, so Jack eventually gives in. He pushes away from the wall with a low grunt and makes his way over to the stove and cupboards lined up along the far wall. He's moving a little more stiffly than usual, a little more slowly as he takes silent stock of their supplies.

"Jesus Christ," he swears softly, crouching down to examine a couple of dust-covered water containers stacked off to one side. "How long has this stuff been here?"

Brock leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "Too many years to count," he says. He had originally designed this dingy little shithole for long-term safety and refuge, and stocked it accordingly. Visits since then have always been short. "Keep digging and you'll probably find shit that's been here since I set this place up."

There's a _whoompf_ as Jack coaxes the gas stove back to life, followed by the sound of water sloshing into a pan, and then a rattle as Jack places tins down onto the counter top. "Now my Arabic is rusty," he says slowly. "But if I'm reading these right you have a choice of lamb stew, lamb stew or... lamb stew." 

Brock doesn't open his eyes but he does smile thinly. "That's French, asshole," he mutters, "I'll be nice and let you choose. I'm not hungry." He senses rather than hears Jack approach and cracks one eye open to find Jack standing over him.

"Too bad. You gotta eat," he says with a frown. "What's gotten into you _now_?"

Brock opens his mouth to brush Jack's concern off, and is wholly surprised at himself when he says instead, "I don't have any particularly good memories of this place." He holds up a hand before Jack can reply. He doesn't need to get into this; shouldn't have said anything in the first place. _Stupid_. "It's nothing, really. It's just been a... _really_ fucking bad day, that's all."

Jack doesn't look like he entirely buys it, but he lets it go with a nod. Behind him the water has reached the boil and there are loud hisses as some of it bubbles over the side of the pan. As he turns away, he says, "Why don't you make yourself useful and go get us some weapons? Just in case your secret safe house isn't as secret as you think it is. You do have guns here, don't you?"

Brock snorts and levers himself to his feet. He's dog-tired, but the pain in his jaw has settled into a deep and increasingly insistent ache. "How about some painkillers first?"

"Look at you, _thinking_." Jack grins briefly at Brock over his shoulder to take the sting out his words and Brock flicks him the finger in reply, before heading upstairs to what passes for the bedroom. 

It's not a whole lot larger than a prison cell, and it contains about as much furniture – a metal frame bed with a thin mattress, a low chest of drawers and a chair next to the window. Shit, Brock's definitely seen prison cells which are both larger and more homely, but the toilet isn't actually in the same room so that's something.

Jack has the stew heating in another pan and is washing bowls using the boiled water when Brock returns with the medkit. "Alright Rollins, come pick your poison," Brock says, laying out the options on their little table. "I've got... well, basically everything."

It's not an exaggeration either. Jack scans the selection with wide eyes as Brock lists them out, tapping each packet in turn. "Fucking _hell_ , Brock. Unofficial jobs huh?" His hand hovers for a moment over the heavy-duty opiates before he grabs some basic over-the-counter shit and retreats back to the stove.

Brock shakes out a couple of codeine and swallows them dry. "Exactly. Can't just radio for evac when things go wrong."

He packs it all back in as Jack sets down the mugs and bowls and sits down across from him. If Brock were feeling generous, he'd say the stew is probably one of the least appetising meals he's ever seen. It's the actual colour of shit, with beige lumps of unidentifiable vegetables and doubtful meat floating in it. He sniffs at it cautiously. Yeah, it smells shit too.

"Just eat it," Jack says, blowing gently on his spoonful and popping it into his mouth. He makes an exaggerated show of chewing it. "It's actually better than most of our MREs."

"So's a kick in the teeth," Brock grumbles but he does as he's told and digs in, careful to favour the uninjured side of his mouth.

It tastes every bit as as awful as he had expected it to be; the meat is definitely not lamb and the only flavour he can taste is salt, but he knows better than to waste a hot meal. The second helping is probably even worse than the first, but he's already starting to feel better; a little more alert, a _lot_ more human.

"Told you it wasn't so bad," Jack says when Brock's done. "So what's the plan now?"

Brock licks the spoon clean and drops it into the bowl. That really is the million dollar question and he's a little surprised it's taken Jack so long to ask it. "Get in touch with HQ," he says. "Update them on our situation, and then see what they can do to arrange pick-up."

"But you said HQ's infested with Hydra," Jack points out, stumbling slightly over the last word like he still can't quite believe what he's saying. "They came damn close to having us both back on that ship. Shouldn't we wait a bit before we stick our heads back over the parapet?"

Brock takes a sip of still-lukewarm water as he considers what the best angle to take with this. "Yeah it is, and yeah they did," he says finally. "But they'll already know we made it out by now."

"All the more reason to keep a low profile. You said yourself you don't know how far this thing goes."

Yes he did, didn't he. Brock sighs, and runs a hand roughly through his hair. "Alright. No, I don't know everyone who is and isn't trustworthy back at the Trisk. But there's one person I do know is clean; Fury. And Jack, he's going to need _our_ help to fight this and save SHIELD. Sure it's a risk, but we have to take it, or else Hydra wins."

Jack leans back in his chair and fixes Brock with a thoughtful stare. "Hmm. Can you get in contact with Fury without alerting anyone else?"

Brock grins. _Gotcha_. "Sure I can; his paranoia comes in handy sometimes." They both share a small smile at that. Brock's stool scrapes gently across the concrete as he stands up. "Mind if I take the first shower?"

"You gonna leave me any hot water?"

Brock cocks an eyebrow at him and gestures expansively at their surroundings. "What gave you the idea that this place has hot water?" he asks, and can't help but smirk when Jack groans.

Brock strips off quickly in the little bedroom and grabs a towel. He pauses briefly at the top of the stairs; sure enough there's a shadow moving in the dim light below and the gentle slosh of water as Jack washes up. _Good old predictable Jack_ , he thinks, before heading into the bathroom and engaging the lock.

Something scurries hurriedly into the space behind the toilet when Brock flicks on the light, but he ignores it. He turns on the shower and the old pipes wheeze and rattle for a minute until finally he's rewarded with a thin trickle of water that slowly gets stronger. Even at full power the water pressure isn't great, but it's enough to wash with, and strong enough that it smacks loudly against the old tile, echoing in the small space. 

Brock kneels down next to the toilet and reaches back until he can feel the tiles. To the eye they all look similar enough; some are chipped and cracked, most are discoloured. He runs his fingers over them, looking for a specific pattern that indicates the false tile. 

_There!_

He works his fingernails into the grout and carefully, ever so carefully, works the tile loose. It's not as fast as he'd like – he can't risk dropping it – and Brock curses silently, one ear cocked for any sound beyond the bathroom door.

Once it's out, he wedges himself into the space between the toilet and the wall and reaches into the exposed wall cavity, working a little plastic-covered package out of the hole.

Inside the bundle is a phone; 5 million Algerian dinar and a passport; all individually wrapped, all untouched since he placed them in that spot. Brock unwraps the phone and dials the number from memory, pausing to check for movement outside before he hits connect.

He doesn't recognise the voice that picks up, but that's not unusual. They go through the standard identity verification protocol, and then there's a different voice on the other end of line asking brusquely for an update. Brock gives it as quickly as he can, keeping his voice low and one eye on the door. There's a moment of silence, and then a series of terse instructions.

"Oh, and Commander? One last thing..."

Brock listens, his pulse suddenly thudding loudly in his ears. "Understood," he manages, although his mouth has suddenly gone bone dry and it comes out weaker than he would have liked. The line goes dead a second later.

He's staring at the bathroom wall and completely lost in thought when the sudden sound of a fist against the bathroom door startles him badly enough for him to fumble the phone.

"Did you fucking die in there or what?" It's just Jack (of course it is). _Shit, soldier_ , Brock curses to himself. _Get your head in the game_.

"Sorry," he calls out, stuffing the phone and the rest of the bundle back into the hole, and replacing the tile. "I'll be out in a sec."

"You fucking better be," comes the growled response.

Brock grabs the soap and steps under the spray. He breathes out sharply at the shock of cold water against his skin but it's good; sharpening his senses and his focus, leaving him feeling alert and energised. He can hear Jack pacing back and forth irritably outside.

He takes one last look at the tile as he wraps the towel around his waist – it's fine, of course – and then opens the door to find Jack glowering at him from where's he leaning against the opposite wall, already completely naked with just a towel in his arms. 

"Fucking _finally_ ," he grumbles, and pushes past Brock. He dumps the towel beside the sink and doesn't bother to close the door.

Brock lingers in the doorway, watching as Jack tips his head back under the water, one arm braced against the tiled wall. "Hey Jack?" he calls out, before he can help himself.

"What?"

He pauses. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

Jack rolls his head to the side and gives him an odd look. "OK. Now stop being a pervert and go finish cleaning the guns," he says. "I found 'em, but I got bored of waiting for your sorry ass."

Brock nods. "Yeah, alright." He grabs a pair of pants and a soft t-shirt from a drawer in the bedroom and pulls them on without bothering to really dry off. Downstairs, he finds at least five guns disassembled on the kitchen table. He grabs one, the handgun Jack had given him earlier back on the boat, and quickly puts it back together. It's all just muscle memory; his mind is awash in white noise.

Upstairs, he hears the shower turn off. Brock looks down at the gun in his hand and chambers a round. He takes a deep breath and starts up the stairs, holding it slightly behind his back.

Jack's drying off in the bedroom when Brock gets to the top of the stairs. He has one towel wrapped around his waist while he uses Brock's discarded one to dry his hair. Now that he has a chance to look properly, Brock can see the evidence of Jack's own injuries; there are deep bruises already forming on his chest and back, and tell-tale weals from a high-powered electroshock weapon high on his ribs. Brock knows how hard it is to put Jack down; whoever did it, did it hard.

"Anyone ever tell you that it's rude to stare?"

Brock looks up to find Jack smiling at him; all trace of his earlier irritability washed away by the shower. He feels his fingers tighten around the gun where it's hidden from view behind the door frame. "Just doing a visual inspection of your injuries," he says lightly, and it sounds like his voice is coming from a mile away.

"Uh-huh." Jack drops the towel onto the chair and wanders over to where Brock is still leaning by the door. "Speaking of, how's that jaw of yours?"

He's less than a foot away. The gun trembles behind his back. All Brock has to do is step to the side, turn slightly, and―

Gentle fingers cup Brock's jaw. "Open up," Jack says quietly and Brock complies, letting Jack tilt his face up to the light so that he can get a better view. "Y'know, it doesn't actually look that bad. Should heal up fine. Does it still hurt?"

"No." There's a slight ache still, but it's muffled by the codeine and there's no real pain. Maybe if there was Brock wouldn't be hesitating like a pussy-ass bitch.

Jack pats his cheek lightly. "Good." He walks back over to the bed and sits down on the edge, expression turning serious again. "Brock, I was thinking... You haven't called Fury yet, right?"

Brock doesn't trust himself to speak, so he just shakes his head.

"I was thinking about what you said, and if _I_ was a part of Hydra-" Brock can't help startling at that but luckily Jack seems to miss it. "-the minute I knew the game was up, I'd make my move. What do they have to lose at that point? I know you said Fury's clean but we call in now, we really don't know who's actually gonna pick up."

Brock's mind is racing. "You really think we should wait."

Jack nods. "Yeah, I do." He stares at Brock for long minute. "I know how badly you want to get back to help them fight this. I get it, I do. I saw what they did to the rest of our team, and...if I could I'd tear every single one of those fuckers apart with my own hands. But there's just the two of us left now, Brock, and we have no real idea of who the enemy actually is. Even if we _can_ get to Fury there's not a whole lot we can do." He looks down at the floor, and Brock has to strain to hear what he says next. "Besides, if the whole agency's rotten, maybe it's for the best if it dies."

Brock thinks back to his phone call. He's suddenly incredibly aware of the gun's weight in his hand; it feels heavier than it should be. Jack is still looking down at the floor. This is the perfect opportunity. "To be on the safe side," Brock says quietly. "We'd probably need to give it at least a couple of weeks. Maybe longer."

Jack looks up again, and starts to smile. "We've got more than enough food and water, so long as we're careful with what we use. I even had some ideas for how we can entertain ourselves, too."

Brock can't help smiling back. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, I thought first off you could thank me properly for saving your life back on that ship," Jack says with a wink.

There is a voice at the back of Brock's mind warning him that he's about to make a huge mistake, but it's drowned out by something far more ferocious that surges up from the depths of his subconscious and sinks its claws deep into his brain.

 _Fuck it_. Brock's going to have an even worse memory to add to the rest associated with this place before this night is over. Might as well grab the opportunity for something good whilst it's offering itself up to him.

"Stay there," he orders and turns on his heel to head downstairs again, flicking the safety back on his gun as he goes and almost throwing it onto the table in his haste to get to the medkit. He finds a sachet of lube and takes the stairs back up two at a time.

Jack is reclining against the headboard with both hands laced behind his head when Brock comes back. The towel is now lying in a heap over by the wall.

"Look what I found in the medkit," Brock says, shrugging out of his clothes. He tosses the lube onto the bed, and uses the distraction is provides to reach into his combat pants' pocket.

Jack huffs out a laugh. "Unofficial jobs, huh?"

Brock smirks widely, just can't help it, and climbs onto the bed to straddle Jack's hips. "Oh, Jackie," he murmurs, leaning forward so he can grab one of Jack's hands in his own. "You have _no_ idea."

There's a soft click as the cuff latches, and for a second Jack just looks perplexed. His confusion doesn't last for more than a moment, but it's enough; Brock quickly feeds the chain around one of the headboard's bars and slaps the other cuff around Jack's other wrist before he can wrench it away.

"Oh what the _fuck?_ " Jack breathes, tipping his head back to stare at the handcuffs and then glaring at Brock. His expression is venomous. "Get me the _fuck_ out of these right now."

"What's the matter?" Brock asks him with a wolfish grin. He settles his weight back onto Jack's thighs to keep him still and runs his palms slowly up Jack's chest, relishing the feel of hard muscle under his skin. "Don't you like it when I take control?"

Jack doesn't reply, just continues to scowl, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Brock knows Jack well enough to know that this is reminding him a little too keenly of the nastier parts of his SERE training. He gives him a small reassuring smile. "I'm saying thank you, remember?"

He's careful to avoid the worst of the bruising as he continues his ministrations, and at length he starts to feel the muscles loosening under his hands as the tension leeches away. Jack's always been easily distractable when it comes to dick, and soon enough he starts to arch into the touches.

"Yeah. That's it." A glance down shows him Jack's already half-hard. "Just like that."

Brock shuffles back a bit further to give himself leverage, and leans down to lick a wet stripe slowly across Jack's left nipple. He draws it into his mouth and sucks as hard as he can, listening to the way Jack's breathing hitches when he rolls it gently between his teeth, and then catches entirely when Brock bites down into the muscle of his chest.

Jack whines low in his throat when Brock switches his attention to his other nipple, the handcuffs completely forgotten as Brock draws his attention elsewhere. Brock leaves a trail of wet marks over Jack's skin as he slowly works his way up to Jack's neck and throat. He's never usually this restrained but Brock wants to take his time, have Jack utterly boneless and pliant under him and unable to do anything but accept what Brock gives him. He bites down into Jack's neck and presses fingers into one of the larger bruises at the same time, and is rewarded by a loud gasp and Jack's hips jerking sharply into his own.

Brock chuckles. "You like that, huh?" He reaches over to grab the lube sachet and tears it open with his teeth. Jack follows the motions hungrily, eyes hooded with lust as Brock squeezes some onto his fingers.

"See?" he says, pushing Jack's legs further apart so that he can settle between them. "I'm gonna show you just how thankful I really am." His own breath catches as he watches one finger disappear easily into Jack's ass up to the knuckle.

It's obscene really, just how easily Jack's body opens up to him. Brock draws his hand back to add a second finger and can't help the grin that spreads over his face when a sharp twist of his wrist drags a desperate whine out of Jack, and then another, and another.

Yeah... This is definitely a mistake.

"Fuck," Jack pants when Brock stops, his hips rolling to try and push himself down onto Brock's fingers. " _Fuck_. Don't you fucking _dare_..."

Brock just smiles down at him, fingers maddeningly still. "Ask me nicely," he says, and the look that earns him is hot as all hell; lust and anger all rolled together.

Brock runs his free hand up Jack's thigh. "C'mon, it's easy." He bends low until his mouth is right next to Jack's ear. "All you've got to do is say please. Just one little word." He finds that sensitive spot again and bites down into Jack's neck at the same time, and the noise it wrings out of Jack – something between a gasp and a moan – goes straight to his dick.

" _Please_." It doesn't sound like it was easy to say.

"Say... 'Please fuck my cock-hungry ass, Commander'."

Jack actually _growls_ , low and deep in his throat. "So help me God, Brock I will―"

Brock laughs. However Jack was planning to finish that sentence is lost in a shuddering groan as Brock works a third finger into him. He sucks another mark into the tender skin of Jack's throat and glances up to find that Jack's eyes are completely closed as he loses himself in the sensations. Brock finds it endlessly hot, the way that Jack throws himself into sex, like the thought of holding back just never occurs to him. He scissors his fingers experimentally, and Jack arches off the bed with a gasp and a curse, the handcuffs rattling against the headboard.

Brock leans over to lick into his mouth, kissing him deep and hard and ignoring the sharp flare of pain that reawakens in his jaw. It's worth any amount of pain to have Jack writhing around his fingers, a litany of incoherent sounds spilling from his mouth.

Jack whines deep in his throat when Brock sits up again, drawing his fingers out slowly. He rolls his head to the side to glare at Brock. "Rumlow," he warns, voice low and gritty. It sends a thrill down Brock's spine. "You better―"

"God you're demanding." Brock says, tapping the index finger of his other hand against Jack's lips to shush him. As if he could hold out for much longer anyway; he's been achingly hard almost since the moment Jack made the suggestion. He reaches over for the lube again, spreading the rest of it over his cock and shuffles forwards until the head is pushing against Jack's ass.

He briefly considers telling Jack to ask for it again just to see the flash of anger twist his features, but decides against it; Jack will be begging of his own accord soon enough anyway. He pushes slowly inside, watching as Jack's mouth falls open in a wordless cry.

"Oh... _fuck_." It's not eloquent but it _is_ heartfelt, and just about all Brock can manage. The feel of Jack around his cock is electrifying; no matter how many times they do this, it still shorts out all his higher cognitive functions and reduces his senses to little more than hot/wet/tight, until all he can think of is _'want Jack'_ , _'need Jack'_.

He stops once he bottoms out, giving Jack a moment to adjust whilst he commits the visual feast spread out in front of him to memory.

"Come on," Jack urges him, wrapping his legs tight around Brock's waist to try and pull him closer. "What are you waiting for?"

The small part of Brock's mind that is still capable of rational thought is all but screaming now, but he's beyond the point of caring. Brock can recognise a mistake when he's in the middle of fucking it, but this is the best mistake he'll ever make.

"Don't want this to be over too soon," he says with a wink. He gets both hands under Jack's knees to lift him into a better position and they both groan as it pushes Brock even deeper.

He shifts his hands to Jack's hips to hold him in place as he fucks into him with long strokes, purposefully keeping the pace a little too slow and the angle of his thrusts a little too shallow, just so he can watch the frustration build on Jack's face. The handcuffs rattle as he shifts on the bed, trying to find a position that will scratch that itch and give him what he wants.

" _Fuck_ ," Jack chokes out. "Rum, please- Fuck, please..." And well damn; if he's going to ask _that_ nicely...

Brock leans down until he's pressed flush against Jack's chest, and the slick slide of their skin is just the right side of filthy. It's so good; the hard press of Jack's legs around him, the way his body rocks in time with Brock's thrusts, the broken and desperate moans each one draws as Brock finds that sweet spot over and over again.

It's too much, too good, too _hot_. And it was always going to be over too quickly.

Brock comes with a ragged shout, his face buried in the hollow between Jack's jaw and throat and feeling like his heart is about to break right out of his ribcage and out through his chest. He lies there for a long moment as his cock softens, breathing in the smell of clean sweat clinging to Jack's skin as he tries to get himself back under control.

"Aren't you forgetting something here?" Jack asks pointedly, breath hot against Brock's cheek.

Brock doesn't want to move - doesn't want this to end – but he doesn't have a choice. "You're so greedy," he tells Jack as he pushes himself back up to his knees. 

"Yeah," Jack says, and smiles up at him, all slow and lazy. "But this is you saying thank you, remember?"

If Brock were a younger man, the noise Jack makes when he spits into his palm and wraps his fingers around his cock would be almost enough to get him half-hard again. He jerks Jack off with firm strokes and slides his other hand up over Jack's chest until it's wrapped tightly around his throat.

He'd been close before, so it doesn't take a lot to push him over the edge. Brock quickens the pace and tightens his grip on Jack's throat until his breath starts to rattle past his teeth, and then Jack comes with a sudden choked cry, his body tensing and shuddering as he spills over Brock's fingers.

He looks up at Brock as the aftershocks subside; green eyes soft and dark with something that Brock refuses to let himself think about.

Something that is quickly replaced by shock and panic as Brock leans forward and squeezes harder still.

\- - -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love to all of you who have left kudos, comments or have bookmarked this story thus far. You all rock.


End file.
